


The Song

by FenMelava (missara)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cassandra acts like a mother, Eventual Relationships, F/F, F/M, Gen, Implied Relationships, Imshael - Freeform, Lyrium Addiction, M/M, Mages, Red Lyrium, References to Addiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-13 19:51:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3394214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missara/pseuds/FenMelava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i will try to update every Tuesday from now on. The updates will be longer than 1k as I just needed to get the first couple of chapters out of the way and set the story.</p></blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will try to update every Tuesday from now on. The updates will be longer than 1k as I just needed to get the first couple of chapters out of the way and set the story.

She takes a deep breath, trying to summon any sort of mana to shield herself from the imminent battle. As she casts her barrier, her vision blurs in and out, causing her to collapse once more on the ground.  

She needs it. It seared her veins, made them alive, and it called for her. They haven’t come for her in weeks and she is beginning to wonder, much to her despair, if they have forgotten her. Her palms are sweaty and shaky, her breaths shallow and scratches cover her scalp, attempts from stopping the music to no avail. She's become anxious, desperate to escape. She can hear its songs, she can see it all around her, but the cage traps her, confines her. 

Someone is here. They want to take what is hers, destroy her. She won’t let them. They can’t take it. It is hers. Footsteps echoed around the corner, and she scurries to the corner of the cage, hugging the decrepit ground, holding onto the rusted, weathered bars. 

          “Oh, shit.” 

          “What Varr- what the fuck.” 

          “My thoughts exactly.” 

She wants them to stop talking. They were interrupting the song, and she can’t hum along. If she had any willpower left, she would have blasted them miles away. The songs helped her, made her stronger, but now they left her weak and cowering. The tall man approaches her prison, looking at her intently before stepping away to make room for the short man. His edges are tinted with red.  She hisses, trying to push herself further away, but the metal bars keep her from doing so. Like a scared animal, she begins digging into the ground, not caring that her fingertips are becoming bloody and dirty, ignoring the pain as she tries to dig into the stone, to no avail. She hears the cell door creak open, and she begins digging even faster, gasping when something- a hand, touches her shoulder, pulling her back as she scrambles to run from them. 

          “Be careful. This is not an ordinary mage. She’s been…corrupted.” A tall woman follows the other two men into the cell, hand reaching for her sword in contempt. 

          “The seeker’s right. She’s been corrupted by red lyrium.” She doesn’t understand them- can’t follow what they are saying, but she likes the woman’s voice. It is melodic, and blocks out the song. It is nice when the song stops playing. Her head hurts less and she can think. Tilting her head upwards, she nudges the woman’s hand with her own, but she looks down, confused. 

          “What is she doing?” The woman asks, tentatively stepping away from her but she doesn’t care. She is content. She spoke again, and it stopped the song. But when the woman stops talking, she grimaces, scratching her head to get rid of it. The song is already weak, and although it made her strong, when it stopped altogether, she could think. Thinking helped. 

          “I think she’s taken a liking to you, Cassandra.” Think. You. She cocks her head, not understanding. The voices in front of her are speaking, and she can comprehend what they were saying. 

          “Kill her,” the woman says, waving her off and exiting the cell. Kill her. Her eyes widened and she broke free, scrambling, trying to climb up the metal bars, to run away. 

          “It seems you’ve hurt her feelings,” the man remarks, sheathing the sword he has begun to draw. “I’ve never seen a mage corrupted by red lyrium. I want to take her back to Skyhold.” 

The woman sighs, disgruntled by the man, “You are just prolonging the inevitable.” 

          “I don’t think so,” the man replies, grabbing a hold of her forearm and pulling her towards them. “It looks as if she hasn’t had a dose in a while.” 

          “So? It will eventually consume her.” The woman says, causing her to sway her head as if in a daze. 

          “She’s confused. The song is so weak, barely heard.” She jumps slightly as another person appears- out of thin air? - looking sympathetically at her. “She likes your voice,” he says turning to the woman. 

          “S-she likes my v-voice?” The woman asks, clearing her throat uncomfortably. After a long silence the woman speaks, “Fine, she can come.” 

          “We still have the matter to deal with Imshael,” the man points out, tightening his grip on her. She flinches in response, not liking the pain. She wants the woman to talk to her, and make the song stop. “Cole, I’m leaving her in your care.”  

          “Cole is not exactly suitable for babysitting,” the woman says, stepping in between the man and her. Through her blurred vision, she looks up at the woman, but all she sees is red. She sighs. Her vision was still tinted by the song. 

          “I need you and Varric with me,” the man replies, pushing her towards the other man with the hat, and she stumbles forward, almost tripping over the force. 

The man in front of her tentatively reaches out a hand for her to accept. She looks at it, unsure of how to react. What is she supposed to do? “It’s okay.” The man urged. “I won’t hurt you.” She shakes her head, knowing that she can’t understand what he is saying. The song is getting louder, and her fingers immediately go to her head, and she begins nervously scratching, trying to push the song away. 

Before she can begin, the same hand yanks her away, and she yelps in alarm. It has been a long time since another person had touched her and it burns. It burns and makes her feel alive. 

She doesn’t understand the meaning. She thought the song made her alive, at least that’s what they told her when she was first, brought to them. Now, she needs it like the air she breathed, even now. 

She feels the heat rise to her cheeks and she averts her eyes away from him. “My name’s Cole.” 

She cocks her head, “C-cole?” She repeated, the word slipping clumsily off her tongue. It was foreign. When was the last time she spoke? She can’t remember. Everything is blurred. 

The man nods his head, and she decides it will be okay. But she can still hear the lyrium singing to her, calling for her, and she watches as her knuckles turn white from clutching the man’s hand. 

_We are here._


	2. Chapter 2

They said she was safe. Why did they lie? As soon as they returned to the fortress in the mountains, something Cole called Skyhold, she was thrown into a cell. The woman, whose voice she liked, said it was for her own safety. But she didn't feel safe.

She needed the song. Needed it. Needed it. Needed it. The woman says she's going through withdrawal, whatever that means. She doesn't stay. She leaves her with Cole, whose wide blue eyes make her feel safe. The scratching feeling returns but he doesn't let her. She doesn't understand because it makes her feel better. He looks conflicted too.

She doesn't know how long she is in the cell and she pisses herself. The waterfall didn't help. Cole leaves her, eventually, and she is free to do as she pleases. She picks at the cuticles on her nails but boredom sets in soon after. She doesn't understand why they took her from one cell just to put her in another. That much she can't comprehend.

But its Maker knows how long time has passed, when people shuffle into the hold, watching her through the bars, like she is a caged animal. She doesn't like it so she hisses, grabbing a rock and readies it. 

They will not touch her. They will not hurt her. Not anymore.

But they don't. The woman opens the cage and hands her something soft. Clothes? She takes them from her, running her hand over it with curiosity. She has worn the same clothes for some time. The gesture is that of goodwill.

"Maker, this thing is not human." She flinches at the venom from the blonde-haired man next to the woman.

"Alexander seems to disagree," she says. It sounds like she is taking her side, but then she remembers she is still locked in this cell. The woman turns to her. "Would you put that rock down before you hurt yourself?"

She drops the rock and it clatters to the ground, dust settling around and she sneezes. The woman sounds like mother – mother! She remembers her. She thinks. Graying hair, a wagging finger, but a smile that makes her warm inside. Yes, she decides. This woman reminds her of mother.

"She is no harm to anyone but herself!" The woman says, rubbing the bridge of her nose in frustration. "Can you help her?"

The man rubs the back of his neck. "I suppose so." The woman sighs in relief. "But I don't know if it will work. Red lyrium is not the same as the lyrium Templars take. We must be prepared if this does not fare well."

The woman nods her head, then looks her way. “We should find out her name, if she has a family left. I’m sure they would want to know she’s alive and safe. I will go speak with Leliana.”

          “And you want me to just… stay with her?” The man says, uncertainty in his voice.

          “She needs a proper meal. See if the cook can whip something up for her to eat.” The woman says and disappears back the way she came from.

The man turns to face and gives her a lopsided smile. As if he isn’t sure what to do.

          “Are you, er- hungry?” He asks, and it takes her a minute to comprehend what he’s said but when she does, her stomach growls. Yes, she supposes she is hungry. She stares at him for a long time and he eventually looks away from her, rubbing his neck again. Oh.

          “Yes,” she says but it is too quiet, too dry. She licks her lips, running her tongue over their chapped surface. “Yes,” she tries again and this time she has got his attention. Instead of trying to talk, she just nods her head.

He walks towards her cell, and she panics. One part of her is trying to tell her it’s okay, that he’s her friend. The other is telling her to grab a weapon, that he is her enemy. He seems to notice her reaction and reaches for his weapon. This only increases her paranoia. She scampers to the farthest corner and watches him with weariness. It is then she realizes that the red is no longer there. Her vision is no longer tainted with red. She gasps, laughing but the laughter dies quick, as the man unsheathes his weapon.

He is going to kill her. He can’t. She won’t let him. But he doesn’t. As soon as he unsheathes his sword, it clatters to the ground and he brings his hands up in defeat.

She’s…won?

He takes his time walking to her cell, slow calculated steps and she watches his every movement, eyes alert for any signs that he will attempt to kill her again. But there is none. He opens the cell door and offers a gloved hand to her. She doesn’t take it.

He sighs, withdrawing his hand. “My name is Cullen. You are safe.” He says. His voice is less rough, warmer. Like honey. He offers his hand again.

This time she takes it but as soon as she does a loud clatter nearby startles her and she yanks him, catching him off guard and he falls on top of her, trapping her. Even more scared than before, she scratches at his face, drawing blood and she hisses. He is pushing up off the ground, away from her, before she can attempt to mar him again, but she won’t let him kill her. She runs at him, muttering gibberish but he grabs her by the shoulders, pressing down on them, but not too hard it hurts.

          “I think I will go to the kitchen by myself,” he says and his voice is rough again. She winces as he leads her back to her cell.

This time she is the one who lost.

The cell shuts with a loud metallic creak and she watches him leave. She turns her attention to the mouse that has scurried into her cell.  She wonders what burnt fur smells like so she lights the mouse on fire, watching with curiosity as the thing convulses until it is nothing but ashes. Then she decides that singed fur does not smell pleasant, and it is not something she wants dissipating into her nostrils again.

It feels like forever when he returns with a tray of what smells like food. He balances the tray on one hand as he opens the gate to her cell again. He is watching her wearily. He does not trust her and she does not blame him.

The lyrium has done this to her, and for a split second, she wishes for him to help her. Rid the lyrium from her body, but the thought disappears when the tray of food is placed in front of her. She does not notice how his body goes rigid and how fast he steps away from her, because she is too busy stuffing herself with food. Roasted chicken, boiled vegetables and a small loaf of bread that is still warm. He locks the cell, with her in it and slumps down onto the ground opposite of her cell. She looks up once, to catch him look away, cheeks reddening with embarrassment.

When she finishes, she licks her fingers of the grease and butter, savoring the flavor. She glances up at the man. “T-thank you.” She manages to say, just loud enough for him to hear. She downs the pitcher of water, knocking the goblet over in the process.

          “You are welcome. Morris did not want to part with his food but I can be quite persuasive.” He smirks, eyes glittering with mischief. “Do you remember your name?” He asks, after a beat. She slumps her shoulders in defeat. No, she thinks, I don’t. She had been in that cell for too long. He scoffs, pained. “I suppose you wouldn’t.”

They sit in silence. She pushes the tray away, the scraps making her sick to her stomach. She wishes she remembered her name. How hard could it be? She remembered mother but she sighs in misery. This is pointless. She remembered mother because the woman had helped her. “I remember mother.” She says. “Graying hair, a wagging finger, and a warm smile.” She repeats. How could she forget?

          “Do you remember her name?” He asks, hope in his voice. She shakes her head. She just remembers she loved her. The warm, fuzzy feeling in her stomach leaves, however, replaced with fear and hate.

          “I… hated her?” She confesses, confused. Why does she hate her own mother?

          “I was thirteen years old when I left home to join the Templars.” He says. She freezes in her place. A Templar? He will surely kill her! “I left the Order behind when I joined the Inquisition.” He says, sensing her unease. “But I had a choice. Mages were not so lucky.”

And she remembers now, why she hates her mother. She gave her away to some Circle, abandoned her when she was only nine. “She abandoned me. I was only nine and was a threat to people.”

          “I won’t agree that the Templars always did what was right.” He sighs. “I’m sorry you were taken from your family at such a young age.”

She is getting a headache, trying to remember her past. Taken. Taken. She was taken from the Circle shortly after the Conclave. She was thrown in a pen and given the red, and when she began withering away instead of blooming like the flower they thought she would be, they tossed her aside. This makes her angry.

          “Commander? The Inquisitor is requesting your presence in the war room.” A voice, feminine and high-pitched shouts nearby. He groans, standing up.

“I will have someone come by with more water.” He says, and with that, he is gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this was a little late! i had trouble deciding where to go for this chapter. needed a little jumpstart :)

She is being restrained on both sides, led away from the cell she had become used to. They are dragging her because she’s refusing to walk on her own. She wants Cullen so she can yell at him because this must be his idea.

Wake her up in the middle of sleep and drag her out of her cell, dazed and scared. If her anxiety hadn’t gone through the roof, she would be trying to escape their hold.

She felt like a prisoner but Cullen had told her she was not a prisoner.

She shut her eyes, trying block out the voices.

_Red. So much red. Blood? But it glowed. It glowed, dark red particles floating around the liquid. They held her down as they forced the red liquid down her throat. It tasted bitter at first, seared her throat. It was the aftertaste that sent surges of adrenaline coursing through her body. It tasted like red licorice and strawberries. At first, she thought it was just a potion, something temporary to enhance her abilities, harmless. She was wrong. Very wrong._

The memory faded from her mind as she was pushed down onto a chair, feeling the rough wood as her palms gripped the arms of it. Something dug into them.

          “Isaura Delacroix, daughter of Lord Cyril and Lady Josette,” someone spoke, a clipped Orlesian accent filling the cold air. She couldn’t make out the face of the speaker, only could see the shadow of their figure from the light that flickered by the wall. “It took me some time to figure out who you were.”

Isaura. Why does it sound familiar? “I… is that my name?” She asks. Her mind is still too muddled for her to remember anything, even if she is given the answers.

          “Yes,” she says. “Your brother is here.” Her eyes widen and she immediately shakes her head, writhing in the chair, ignoring the pain in her arms. She doesn’t want him to see her like this.

She remembers him. Vaguely. He’s older than her, she knows this. But she also knows that he visited her in the Circle when no one else did. Or did he?

It all blurs together. The lies and the truths. And the wall that separates them is fluid, always changing. It is not strong, sturdy, barricading one from another like it should. “He wants to see you.” The woman says and the light catches her hair. Red, like hers.

          “I – I don’t want to,” she chokes out. Her voice is hoarse and there is a tickle in her throat. She wants to itch it but she knows they’ll stop her. She wants it.

The door to the room they are in is thrown open and in comes a bulky figure and he stops in front of her, towering over her. She tilts her head. He has the same green almond-shaped eyes, just like hers. “Izzy?”

Izzy.

_“No fair! I wanted to play with the doll!” She complains, her voice rising with each word._

_“You got to play with the doll, like, all day, Izzy,” Amandine runs her fingers through the doll’s coarse hair._

_“That’s because she was MY birthday gift.” She says, snatching the doll back from her sister. It doesn’t work. Her sister holds onto the doll and the doll’s head snaps off from its body, rolling onto the wood floor with a thud. “Look what you did!” She bawls._

A warm body envelops her and she reacts without thinking, pushing the man away from her. “How long has she been sober?” He is nursing his wrist, the one she had grabbed as she shoved him from her. Did she hurt him?

          “When we found her, she was already going through withdrawals.”

          “Maker… All this time we thought she was dead… Almost wish she was. Compared to what she is now, death seems a blessing.” The man says.

          “Not dead, not alive. What am I?”

She jumps at the voice as it whispers in her ear. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the wide-brimmed eye and pale blonde bangs. Cole.

          “What the hell is that?” The man says, stepping back, gripping the hilt of his sword.

          “It’s Cole,” she says. “He helps me.”

          “Izzy…?” He drops his grip on the hilt but his hand remains near the sword, as if he doesn’t believe her.

          “She remembers. It’s foggy still but the memories swirl and sometimes come together. Why is he here? She is scared. Will mother and father visit?” Cole’s voice is soothing even with the fact he is sharing her fears to the redhead and the man.

Gilles.

That was her brother’s name, was it not?

Why did the memory of him seem so close, yet so far away?  She stares at him, watching as he talks to the redhead, over what, she isn’t paying attention to. She observes him, praying to the Maker that some habit of his will access the floodgates in her memory. The ones that are shut and bolted tight.

“Izzy?” She shakes her head as if jolting a painful memory away and flinches as her brother reaches out to her. “Isaura?” He drops his hand back to his side and looks at her with worry. “The spymaster and I think it’s best if you stay here, at Skyhold, to recuperate. She says they’ll have their best looking after you.”

          “What if I don’t get better?” She asks, voice quivering as she meets his eyes.

He smiles, a faint almost ghostlike smile. “You will.”

_“Everyone makes fun of me,” she complains. “They all think I’m odd because I’d rather use my magic for good, rather than evil.”_

_Gilles takes her hand in his, lacing in his fingers in hers. “Fuck them, then.” He smiles, amused as she looks up from the floor, a glitter in her eyes. “What does the Chant tell us?”_

_“That magic is for the good of men, not the good of an individual.” She murmurs, sniffling._

_“You’ll be better than them all, I promise.” He leans in, kissing her forehead._

“Gilles?”

          Her brother stops in his tracks, turning around slowly as if he has a sword to his neck.

The moment ends as the door to the dark, damp room floods with light and the heavy clinking of armor resonates throughout. “You had no right!” His voice booms.

She knows that voice. The Commander, the templar, the addict.

          “Who are you to say she has no right to see your family?” Her brother snaps and she knows his fuse has been lit.

          “I am the Commander of the Inquisition, and she is not fit, nor stable enough for interaction outside of those helping her recover!” His hands reach for her forearm, yanking her up. She expected cold metal on her bare skin, but the contact was soft, warm. Skin on skin.

          _“Oy, you want some of the good stuff?”_

Her eye twitches. She fights the urge. She is better than this. She has to be. It does not control her.

          _“Got to give me the good stuff first,” the man says, unzipping his pants and yanking them down._

She is still too weak to expend any mana. At best, she can provide a small flame with great concentration. At worst, she could unleash a whirlwind of chaos with her magic.

          Luckily, all she manages to produce is a small spark. Enough to make its notice in the room, but not enough to warrant any danger.

          “Let her go,” Gilles says, yanking her away from Cullen.

This is when the redhead, the Spymaster, steps in. She is quiet, agile and does not miss her target as she removes both of the men’s grips from her and pulls her aside. Away from the impending fight. “They both have wounds that have festered for too long. Let them be.”

          Cullen, realizing that he is starting a scene, turns on his heel, storming out of the room. Gilles turns towards the two women, and bows his head. “I apologize for that.” He glances at his sister. “I will be in Skyhold for a few weeks. Perhaps you should rest now and we can try this again.”  
She cocks her head. Try what again? Almost getting into a fight over her? “O-okay,” is all she can manage to get out because of her hoarse voice.             

          “I will add you to the list of visitors,” the Spymaster says, and she leads her out of the room. This time she does not put up a fight. She is tired and any movement on her part causes her to breathe heavy.

She grows curious as the Spymaster does not bring her to the dungeons; instead, they make their way into the throne room, where she feels all eyes on her.

Paranoid. They know. They know she has it. They want it. The feeling leaves a scratch she needs to itch and she tries to fight it this time. She feels her mind forcibly pushing the feeling out. It is not welcome.

          “I thought a room to yourself would be better than your current conditions. “ She says, opening the door to a small room that looked like it used to be a closet. A bed was rested haphazardly against the wall and a dresser sits on the opposite side. “Rest for tonight. Someone will be by tomorrow to go by your itinerary with you.”

The spymaster waves a key in front of her and turns to leave, but she reaches out to grab her wrist. “T-thank you,” she says, and lets go of her.


End file.
